


those hands pulled me from the earth

by sapphfics



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/M, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphfics/pseuds/sapphfics
Summary: They call Ciri’s name, there is silence and Ciri screams.Or: Ciri enters the Arena and Geralt and Yennefer are forced to watch.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	those hands pulled me from the earth

**Author's Note:**

> please see the tags for trigger warnings, and thank you for clicking on this fic <3

They call Ciri’s name, there is silence and Ciri screams. 

In her head. 

A month before the Reaping, their district had almost burned to the ground, and in her grief, Ciri’s grandmother threw herself from the roof of their mansion. She snapped her neck on impact.

So, there is no one left to who cry when Ciri is reaped. No one who will mourn her. She’s been stuck in that house all her life, so she hasn’t got any friends her own age or anyone who would actually miss her. She’s also the youngest reaping victim this year at just twelve. 

Ciri walks slowly to the stage and ascends the staircase. 

-:-

Ciri is tiny, in a turquoise blue cloak that brings out her eyes. 

Geralt was the second youngest in his games, at just thirteen. Geralt pities her immediately. 

At least his own mother had cried. Tried to, at least, even though he knew she only saw his death as a way to get sympathy from the wealthier men of the district. He tries not to think about his childhood, less so about the morning he was reaped. 

Yennefer sits beside him, trying to remain composed and stone faced as she always does. Her lovely purple eyes are downcast, looking away from the cameras for a reason Geralt can’t figure out. She must know they are focusing on her in particular, even though she won’t spare them a glance. But there are a great many things he has yet to figure out about Yennefer, and he can’t dwell on her now, so he turns away from her to watch Ciri and a poor farmer’s son shake hands. 

The poor boy’s mother is still screaming as the anthem plays. It isn’t loud enough to block out her cries, so Geralt can only shut his eyes in the bright sun until he is led to await them on the train. 

-:- 

“What happened to your grandmother?” Geralt asks her on the train. “I met her once, she seemed the type to be here at least.”

It’s a stupid question, Yennefer knows, but for as long as she’s known him Geralt has never been at the best at concealing his emotion around she. Nor, it seems, around the children they send to their deaths. He also never speaks of his past. She tries not to look as though she’s listening with such intensity. 

“No. My grandmother always promised me she would drag me from that stage herself and slain anyone in her way,” Ciri says. She wraps her arms around herself, wrapping herself in her cloak. “But she’s gone. and I'm still stuck here.”

“We were in the Capitol when it happened,” Yennefer reminds him. “Preparing. I’m so sorry, Ciri.” 

Yennefer isn’t the type to give up easily on anyone except herself. She has no prospects for a life beyond indentured servitude to capitol whims and the elf blood lingering in her bones doesn’t stop that. Nor does her magic. Her talent is her magic. Broad enough of a talent that she makes a nice living performing at parties, making glasses float, setting fire to prisoners, making things explode. At least she gives the prisoners a quick death than the prolonged torture she is well aware they would endure otherwise. 

No one questions why she hasn’t aged a day since she won her games aged just fifteen years old. Yennefer has been a mentor for decades, playing court with brightly dressed fools whilst her people starve and die, and her tributes hardly even win. 

In fact, no one from their district has won since Geralt. And that was four years ago. 

But Ciri Cintra is resourceful. The girl is only twelve but she’s clearly learnt something from her late grandmother, stealing one of yennefer’s knives and wielding it well given her age. It’s still a bit heavy for her.

“Weapons are lighter in the Capitol,” Yennefer reassures her. “as are the people’s minds.” 

“Yen,” geralt says, since he’s paranoid and has something to lose. His friend back home, the singer, Jaskier, who has so far survived multiple attempts on his life, the boy who won his games by shoving a sharpened end of his sponsor gifted lute through a career’s eye. Quite memorable, even if his singing makes her want to ram his head through a wall. She wonders if that;s the point. “You both need to make these people like you.” 

“I will,” Ciri swears, puts on a smile that shows all her teeth. 

“She looks a lot like her mother,” Geralt remarks later. “but has her grandmother’s spirit.”

“Don’t tell me you fucked her mother,” Yennefer says slyly. 

Geralt looks disgusted. “No! Her mother was far more interested in trainee peacekeepers who had hair like a hedgehog’s back and face like a warthog.”

“Interesting description,” Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “Were you jealous?”

“Gods no,” Geralt says. “I don't get involved. I did save his life once.” 

“This is what I mean! You say that and then you do the complete opposite,” Yennefer says. “Try and give a little attention to the farmer’s boy, won’t you? He seems sweet.”

“He won’t survive the arena being sweet,” Geralt says. “You must know that.”

“And we can’t show favouritism,” Yennefer reminds him. “or else they really will die in a blink and I’ll have to watch Tassaia crown another victor and gloat for the next year or so.” 

“Oh yes,” Geralt rolls his eyes. “And I wouldn't dream of having you endure that again, Yen. Not without a fight.”

“You think she’ll make it?” Yennefer asks him. It’s out of the blue, considering the conversation. “You said...you’re giving me false hope. You never have hope in anyone.” 

“It’s easier that way. And, I don’t know,” Geralt replies, and Yennefer knows there’s something he isn’t telling her, but decides not to press him. “Do you think the beds have been made yet?” 

“We broke the last one,” Yennefer reminds him. 

“And we may break a thousand more,” Geralt replies. 

Yennefer laughs but it is hollow. Geralt kisses her regardless.

**Author's Note:**

> ...i must do a thg au for every fandom, sorry, hope this didn’t suck, i may continue it if ppl are interested 
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr](https://sapphfics.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/lesbosansastark) if you feel so inclined! let’s be friends <333


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